Awakening
by retrograde6
Summary: HP/DM SLASH. One-shot fic. Draco feels sick in Potions, and collapses shortly thereafter. ''Do you mean to tell me, Potter, that you have been here for no less than *four* hours and... and you fell asleep waiting for me to wake up?''


A/N: Just something weird that I started to churn out while lying on my bed on a Sunday morning. :| It's from Draco's POV and starts off as angst, I suppose, but somehow evolves into... fluff? Sort of. Angsty fluff. Fluffy angst. Pick one. **This is Harry/Draco slash**, meaning that yes, there is a male/male relationship involved, so if you have a problem with that, then just don't read this. This was based on a picture of Harry and Draco that I drew which was, in turn, based on a certain person getting sick in school. ;)

Disclaimer: J.K. Rowling owns Harry Potter. And basically everything else.

Potions.

I stand at the back of the classroom, stirring the mixture in the cauldron methodically. Fifteen, sixteen, seventeen, pause. Then one, two, three...

For some unfathomable reason, Professor Snape has paired me with Longbottom this lesson. At the present count, I have snapped at the Gryffindor six times, screamed ''LONGBOTTOM!'' once and seized the scalpel and ingredients from his hands twice in futile attempts to stop him destroying our potion. Perhaps it is Longbottom's presence that has me feeling inexplicably frustrated, but I feel unusually nauseous at the moment. It had merely been a dull ache in the morning at breakfast, but somehow, it has mutated into an extremely tight, knotted ball of queasiness in my chest. My head is starting to swim, and although this has never happened to me before, I know that it is an inevitable fact that I will be sick... the only question is when.

After another round of showing Longbottom the _proper_ way to slice Mandrake roots, I feel cold sweat forming on my face and my legs are starting to tremble. I try to concentrate on adding the Billywig stings to the potion, but... what number am I at again? I can't remember how many I have put in, for some reason. The details of the potion are going out of my head faster than Professor Snape can take points from Gryffindor.

In front of me, Potter turns around to take out a quill out of his bag, which is placed on the bench, and happens to look at me. I can't even manage my usual look of derision this time and, sod it, I'm not used to this vulnerability. Perhaps it is due to the fact that my face is actually not twisted in a smirk, but Potter actually looks a bit uncertain. As we look at each other, all of a sudden there is a sharp pain in my ribcage and I gasp. It feels as if someone is trying to clench his fist around my heart.

Longbottom jumps in fright as I suddenly slam the scalpel down on the table, missing his fingers by an inch. I close my eyes and grip the front of my robes, trying to calm down and breathe properly. Longbottom looks worried - _worried!_ - as he raises his hand and Professor Snape sweeps over to where we're standing.

Professor Snape asks me if I'm all right, but quite clearly, I'm far from fine. Everybody turns around to ogle at me at the sound of there actually being concern in his voice, and this does nothing to alleviate my discomfort; in fact, I feel considerably worse. I try to speak, but I can't, because by Salazar, it's bad enough feeling like this without being sick in class in front of nineteen other students. I look up and meet Potter's quizzical green eyes; they are wondering if this is another of my ploys to get out of classes.

Suddenly, I start to reach out to him for some incomprehensible reason, and he stares at my fingers with a sort of horrified fascination. As I watch him, it doesn't come as a surprise in my present disoriented state of mind that when I am at my most unguarded, I think of... but no, no, _no_. This can't be. Just as my fingertips are about to touch the sleeve of his robes, I snap out of this revolting stupor and sharply draw my hand back. As I take one step back, I suddenly turn and start to run.

Professor Snape doesn't stop me, not even when I shove the doors open and burst out of the room. Vaguely, from somewhere behind me, I hear him ordering Potter to run after me and ensure my safety, or else, Mr Potter, it will be thirty points from Gryffindor. Even with all seven flights of stairs up from the dungeons, the Potions classroom seems nearer to the entrance of the school building than it did yesterday. Strange. I run and run and run, and distantly think to myself that it is ironic how I usually do not deign to do anything more than saunter.

Past the Forbidden Forest, past the lake. I'm reaching the Quidditch pitch now, but getting weaker with each passing moment. Footsteps pound rapidly behind me, and I know that before long, Potter will catch up. I can hear myself breathing deep and loud and I'm exhausted, but my feet refuse to stop - I can't make them. My vision is marred by black spots flashing in front of me; I can hardly see where I'm going. As I reach the centre of the pitch, Potter shouts for me to stop and a hand grabs me by the shoulder.

My knees give way and I stumble. I'm kneeling on the grass now, shivering, bent forward with only my right hand to support me, and even that is trembling visibly. My last shred of resolution falls away as I finally give in. It doesn't matter anymore that Potter is watching me at what is possibly the most undignified scenario a Malfoy can be in and when I throw up, it feels as if the Cruciatus Curse has been cast on me.

Potter is trying to hold me up by my upper arms, and attempts to pull me up. When he fails, he drags me away with difficulty. Why does it feel as if my arms are burning where he's holding me? I don't resist - I can't. In fact, I'm using my last ounce of strength to try to get up, and I do, but only for a second. Unfortunately, in that second, Potter has apparently decided that I am fine. He lets go and there I am again, collapsing face first onto the grass and rolling onto my back. Before my eyelids fall shut, I see Potter kneeling over me anxiously, wiping my perspiration and hair away from my face and telling me that I'm going to be fine. And my last thought before everything fades to black is... nothing.

***

I awaken, and from the fresh smell of the air I know immediately that I am in the hospital wing, but I don't want to open my eyes. For one, my eyelids feel too heavy and the only thing I want to do is rest. It feels as if I have been merrily attacked by rampant Hippogriffs - my throat feels sore and my legs are aching in a manner unfamiliar to me. The second thing is that I know if I do open my eyes, there will be nothing and no one to see. My housemates - they will not visit me. Slytherins have better things to do, or plan; they might be off conspiring to ruin the next Care of Magical Creatures lesson, or if they are in fifth year and above, plotting world domination with the Dark Lord. Yes, none of us have the time to visit an ill Housemate in the hospital wing... not even if we have nothing else to do.

There's something comforting about this darkness behind the cover, shelter and refuge that is my eyelids. Every other sense is heightened - against my skin, I notice for the first time, with disgust, that the blankets in the wing are in desperate need of replacement. They are thin and worn from the countless times they have been used by injured Quidditch players, by students who have fallen ill or those who have involved themselves in illegitimate inter-house duels. My olfactory senses have seemingly improved: the air in the wing is tangy, as if there are lemons in the room; though it's not to my usual tastes, it's strangely pleasant. And I hear more clearly. I hear the wind whistling outside the window and deep steady breathing in the room; in and out, in and out, and I realise that it is not only my own. There is someone else here in the room with me. Irritably, I pry my eyes open.

It must be late at night, or very early in the morning, for at first the room is dark and I can't see anything, save for the dim moonlight coming from the window. I sit up and fold my arms across my chest - the defiant movement is first nature to me. As my eyes adjust, I see that the room is swathed in darkness, eclipses of light, and there are gradient hues of blue blending to grey blending to black. Shadows are cast behind inanimate objects, and they create bizarre shapes on the surfaces they fall on. A pool of silver catches my eye - it is a mass of silvery, shining material on top of the blankets that are covering my legs. My mind is too fuzzy to undergo any real thought processes at the moment, and I do not recognise what it is. I merely assume that it is a present of some sort, though sent by whom, I simply cannot imagine.

I turn to my left, and find the answer almost immediately. Curled up on a white chair that looks dubiously unsteady, with his arms wrapped protectively around his legs and his head resting on his knees, is the boy who has caused me to fall, in more ways than one. His face is not turned towards me, only that infuriatingly messy hair, but as it is I know his face all too well.

Black ebony catches the moonlight but no, it does not shine. It gleams softly, gently and I watch some of the dark strands dance, falling and rising according to the whim of the Ventilation Charm that has been placed next to my bed. I sit, I watch, I gaze. I myself do not know how long I observe him, but all too soon, it seems, he turns his head the other way, in my direction, and I am rewarded with the sight of dark arcs of black lashes against the golden-brown of his skin, though in the present lighting his cheek is a smooth, luminescent surface of pale blue and grey, like an ice sculpture. The frame of his black spectacles is in stark contrast to the sea of soft aquamarine that bathes his profile. His fringe falls softly into his forehead and eyes, covering the line of lightning incised thinly into his skin. For one moment, I am able to forget that he is the Boy-who-Lived, and only focus on the fact that he is just Potter, unofficial figurehead of Gryffindor House, sent to Hogwarts possibly for the sole purpose of antagonising me, and for me to antagonise.

I wonder what he's doing here, and if Professor Snape commanded him to watch over me until I woke up. Or is he here of his own accord?

Somewhere in the distance, there are footsteps. The number of times I have come to the hospital wing lets me recognise that they are the footsteps of Madam Pomfrey coming to check on sick students - in this case, me. It suddenly occurs to me that Potter most definitely should not be here at whatever time it is now, seeing as Pomfrey is a stickler about restricting visiting hours from late morning to the early evening. I hiss Potter's name loudly as an overwhelming sense of panic start to overcome me. I even reach out and poke him hard in the shoulder.

But the lazy git doesn't stir. There's nothing else for it - I gather what feeble strength I have and shove him off his chair.

In the silence, the crash made by Potter as his head connects with the side of the metal bed frame and he falls to the floor is quite shocking, but by some miracle, the chair itself does not overturn in the process. It totters from side to side and then becomes quite still again. Potter, on the other hand, is most certainly not still. He sits up on the floor with an incensed expression on his face, rubbing the top of his head. My belief that he is obtuse beyond the comprehension of wizardkind is affirmed as he continues to sit and massage the bump that is almost certainly forming under his scalp even as the footsteps get closer and closer.

''_Hide,_ you stupid git!''

It happens in a matter of seconds. He blinks and realises that he is about to be seen in what would appear to be a midnight tryst with his arch-nemesis. In a step that is quite possibly the stupidest thing he has ever done, he leaps onto the bed beside me and throws the silvery material over himself, and suddenly the only thing I'm staring at is a large elongated impression on the blanket.

The door clicks open and Pomfrey steps in. Seeing that I am sitting up in bed, awake, she turns around to flick on the light and brightness floods the room. I gulp, thinking of the obvious indent that is beside me. Looking around, I grab a few pillows and pile it on top and around Potter, lying down and leaning back against the newly-constructed mountain of pillows to try and disguise him as best as I can. I distinctly hear a soft ''oof!''.

''How are you feeling, Mr Malfoy?'' Pomfrey asks kindly as she takes my temperature. I try not to gag as the stick presses up against my tongue.

''Fine, fine... I'm perfectly well, Madam Pomfrey,'' I reply, trying to sound as innocent as possible. She looks quite unused to my politeness, but doesn't comment.

''You wouldn't have collapsed if you were perfectly well,'' she says, looking quite pleased as she reads the stick, which now says 'Fine', as opposed to 'Brain is About to Disintegrate'. As she puts the stick away, she enquires if I have just woken up, and I nod in reply. ''Well, do try and get some rest, will you? You do seem to be much better now... We'll have you in classes by tomorrow afternoon if you continue to recuperate.''

''I'll try not to, then,'' I say charmingly, beaming at her with my most winning smile. She nearly faints as she tries to digest the fact that I have actually just made a _joke_. Quite unnerved by my behaviour, she tells me to quieten down and get some sleep. As she tries to tug the pillows from below me, I practically scream in horror.

''_NO!_''

She freezes, giving me a strange look and thank _Merlin_; she's backing away slowly now. I attempt to smooth the moment over as I lie down again and grab the whole heap of pillows possessively, attempting to look exhausted. The pile stiffens under my grip. Even though I can't see him, as I feel the outline of Potter's body against mine, my heart starts pounding extraordinarily fast and I'm so edgy I think I just might be sick again. Pomfrey nods and turns to go, and she starts to walk to the door.

The lump wriggles under my grip and ''Ahm shuffocating, Malfoy,'' comes muffled from somewhere below the pile of pillows. His voice is disturbingly close to my ear, and bloody _hell_, why is my face getting hot? In a desperate attempt to salvage my sanity, I tell him to shut up.

Pomfrey turns around in confusion. ''What was that?''

''Nothing, nothing... I'm getting rest, just like you said,'' I say hastily, trying not to think about the fact that I am hugging Harry Potter to myself tightly. ''See? Lots of rest. Plenty.'' There is a small snort from underneath me. I try my best to place my foot in the region where his shins are, and know I have succeeded as a stifled grunt comes from the heap. Pomfrey nods again and resumes her walk to the other side of the room to turn off the lights. Just before she shuts the door, she bids me goodnight. I wait for the sound of her footsteps to fade away before finally letting go of the pillows with a twinge of reluctance.

Reluctance?

Potter shoves the pillows off himself and emerges from beneath his Invisibility Cloak, breathing heavily and looking irresistibly gorgeous. He brushes his hair from his eyes and looks up at me angrily. ''Are you trying to kill me, Malfoy?'' he says and I find myself unexpectedly pulled up from the bed as he grips the collar of my shirt forcefully.

''Yes, I believe that would be the eventual plan, Potter... for being so impossibly _thick_ and coming here in the middle of the night!'' I reply coolly, staring back into his eyes.

''Yeah, well, I wasn't planning on falling asleep, was I?'' he says huffily, letting go of me and scrambling over my legs. I feel an unmistakeable jolt through my body as his legs brush mine and I frantically rub my shins in an attempt to erase the tingling feeling. He pulls the chair closer to the bed, closer to _me_, and settles back on it as he props his legs up against the bed.

''I wouldn't put anything past you, Potter,'' I say. There is a silence as we glare at each other in the once again dark room. I am certain that the shadows and moonlight are consorting to play tricks on me, as the way they merge and cast upon his face somehow manage to make him look irritatingly _beautiful_.

''Well, it's all _your_ fault, getting sick in Potions and running away like a right prat.''

''Who asked you to come visit me, then?''

''Snape wanted me to pass you your Potions assignment,'' he says with distaste, and passes me a piece of parchment. It is the assignment on Vanishing and Reappearing Concoctions that we were working on today. Of course, even as Professor Snape gives me an open deadline on this piece of work, he knows that I will hand it up as soon as I am feeling well enough to do so. But in the meantime, something doesn't seem to be right here. If all Potter wanted to do was to pass me an assignment, why in the name of Salazar would he do so in the middle of the night, without Weasley to accompany him?

''Couldn't you have brought it after dinner or some other time, Potter? As you might have noticed, it isn't exactly the appropriate time to be visiting someone in the hospital wing. Incidentally, where's your redheaded minion?''

''He isn't a _minion_, you git. And the reason Ron isn't here is because... well... he would expect me to just throw the parchment in your face and leave.''

''Yes, wasn't that what you would have done? I don't suppose your hobbies include sitting down for a cup of tea with me to discuss the values of Slytherin-Gryffindor inter-house relations.'' His facial expression changes to that of one whom a particularly ravenous Hungarian Horntail has cornered - but seeing as he has done that before, I suppose that might not be too accurate a description.

''Well... er - I wanted to stay longer than just giving you your assignment.'' I stare at him and he squirms uncomfortably under my scrutiny. ''I was just - worried, I guess.'' My mouth does something it never has before - it falls open. ''Look, it was just... weird, seeing you like that. You looked like you were about to - to pass out, or something.'' I don't really recognise him at this moment; he looks almost scared. And my stomach has a different sort of queasiness now as I realise that... he's concerned. For _me_. For a moment I am speechless, but I gather enough of my wits to reply.

''I _did_ pass out, Potter.''

He states rather indignantly that that isn't the point, Malfoy, and becomes silent. I wonder what is, then. There is an awkward silence.

''How long have you been here?'' I finally ask.

''Since, er... ten, maybe. It's about two in the morning now, I think.''

''Ten?_ TWO?''_ I am utterly speechless for a minute. ''Do you mean to tell me, Potter, that you have been here for no less than _four_ hours and... and you fell asleep waiting for me to wake up?''

''Er - yes?'' I feel like hitting him with a broomstick, or perhaps crashing the inviting glass jug of water beside my bed over his head. Although I feel completely furious at him for being such a total _Gryffindor..._ I'm inexorably touched. He sits there, waiting for a tirade and blinking in what can only be described as an endearing manner.

Before I know what I'm doing, I find myself leaping forward faster than you can say ''Floo'' and suddenly I'm on his lap, my legs hanging down over the sides of the chair. He's looking stunned and a bit terrified, really, what with the whole Longbottom-as-Snape-advances-on-him look down pat.

''Malfoy?'' He's leaning back into the chair as far as he can go, and by Salazar, if he presses back any further the back of the chair will most certainly snap off. I'm wondering right now, that if he's so nervous that I'm going to do something _really_ nasty to him, why doesn't he just push me off, the indecisive prat?

And _then_, everything falls into place and Merlin, why didn't I see it before? He's waiting for me to _do_ something. Malfoys do not just jump onto other people's legs and sit there. For that matter, Malfoys never jump, but this is an exception that I'll make for Potter. I bite my lip apprehensively and am suddenly overcome by the urge to kiss him.

And I do. I close my eyes, lean forward and press my lips to his, and for the first few seconds, he's just sitting there, motionless. Is he stunned? Horrified? Suicidal? I pull back, and for a moment I'm feeling sick again, wondering if this was the completely wrong thing to do. He stares at me with those strikingly vivid green eyes and I stare back, and suddenly I realise that I have been playing with his hair. _Playing with his hair.___

But before I can be completely disgusted with myself by this sappy and nauseating action, all of a sudden he pushes me backwards firmly, but it's not meant in a way that's telling me to get lost. As we fall onto the bed together, I happen to land on the spot on which his Invisibility Cloak is lying and I nearly yell in shock. By all the Dark Witches and Wizards that have ever existed, it is immensely _freezing_ to my skin. ''That Cloak is bloody _cold_, Potter,'' I complain, and try to move away, but I'm unable to budge. Potter won't _let_ me; he's holding me down onto the bed by the arms so tight I feel as if he's put the Full Body-Bind Curse on me.

He throws the Cloak aside in one fluid motion before he bends down and... how did my tie get on the floor so fast? But then I stop wondering about such inane and unimportant questions as he gives me the most spectacular kiss of my life. Merlin, he's almost better than _me_. When he pulls away, I find that I am breathing incessantly fast and I feel flushed with emotions and feelings that I honestly cannot believe actually exist. ''A problem, Malfoy?'' he asks, smiling as he bends down again.

And there isn't.

A/N: Well, I warned you about it being weird. The Invisibility Cloak isn't really _cold_, of course... Or maybe it is. Just that because it's all silvery and slithery, I kind of imagine it to be liquid metal or something. Draco probably wouldn't be wearing his tie either if he were sick in the hospital wing, but oh well. :) All I can say is, please review!


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